Life is still, silent and dormant..

The show begins; Spring takes the stage.

She sings her song, a warming Sonata

Life once dormant begins to awaken

Peeping frogs chirrup and preep

A world of dormancy answers the call...

Buds and blooms, brides and their grooms

Sweep the floors, dancing to her short sweet tune

The Sonata from Spring, so lovely, so short...

Beckons in precedence the Symphony of Summer.

Summer arrives in the wake of Spring, all her gaiety at its fullest,

She beams her radiant smile and thus sets the stage;

Grasses dip and sway to her rythmic breeze

Flower heads bob and dance as finches sing her melodic symphony

Oceans around the world roar in their applause

In crashing waves of intensity, excitement

As Summer's Symphony draws to an end

Autumn's Nocturne takes its queue.

A whispering hush, her opening scene

A cold, still rain to bear her sweet melancholy

Pitter patter do her tears fall,

A soft percussive beat upon the frozen earth.

Her gentle sighs stir her leaves of sweet decay

And cast to the ground, those she can no more play...

Her mournful tears are her Nocturne's closing;

Winter, in cold indifference, begins her Song.

Cold and still, she conducts her tune...

Gusty flutes, so piercing, so crisp...

Barren, brittle sticks clitter and clap,

The northern gales shriek and cry..

The lights go down.... she ends her show.

In pale radiance, a calming conclusion

The Moon, in all her full splendour, centers the stage...

She sings naught, nor dances, nor sways...

But all whom do see her... are there to stay.

All was still..... a tranquil hush. Though only the day after Thanksgiving, all forms of vegetable life lay dormant beneath a quilt of cold, white snow. As dusk approached, the atmosphere, glazed over with a solid layer of grey clouds, assumed a bluish hue...

On queue, light-censored lamps perched atop pillars of carven stone at once began to glow a peachen yellow. Chickadees, whom only moments before had been bantering amidst themselves for a turn on the seed-laden feeders, flittered away to their residential evergreens; just so as the vehicles traversing the nearby highway were returning to their homes for the weekend. It is Friday.

Truth is, oftentimes, the unfavorable opinion.

One does not always want to hear they're wrong... Likewise, one doesn't always want to know they're right. But one of the greatest?

Fear of knowing: knowing what others may or may not think of them. How they look, how they act, where they come from.... and can either make or break your day.

The truth is... the truth hurts.